


Superimposition

by SegaBarrett



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, Season 8
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/pseuds/SegaBarrett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House is arrested after S7; Tritter's at the police station. But neither suspects that disaster is about to rock their worlds and make them have to work together to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mission Statement

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters from House, and I make no money from this.

“Is there a good way to tell your friend that you looked her new boyfriend up on the Sex Offenders website?” Detective Miranda Bennett asked, twirling one ebony braid with a caramel finger. Her partner, broad-shouldered blonde Michael Tritter, about thirty years her elder, stared at her a moment before taking a drag off the cigarette in his hand. 

“Nope,” he replied simply, looking up from the file folder he was gazing at. “Did he do anything?” Miranda looked down at the table that separated them.

“I don’t know. He’s got a fairly common name,” she replied honestly. 

“Don’t say anything – she won’t listen anyway,” Tritter said, waving his free hand dismissively. “People don’t ever.” 

“You’re not exactly the King of Optimism, y’know?” Miranda said sarcastically, standing up to cross over to the coffee maker. Tritter and Miranda’s office wasn’t particularly big, but it at least had enough room for a table, coffeemaker, and a few boxes of things Miranda couldn’t find a place for in her apartment but couldn’t bring herself to throw out. It helped that the amount of Tritter’s stuff in the office was minimal – a couple of pens, a filing cabinet, and a computer. Miranda had harangued him more than once about why he didn’t have photos of family on his desk, like she did, but she’d been unsuccessful in getting any sort of satisfactory answer and had therefore given up.

“News to me,” Tritter retorted, taking another drag.

“I thought you quit smoking,” Miranda continued, pouring coffee into her mug. 

“I did. Then I started again,” he said tersely. Miranda glared. 

“What are you reading so intensely?” she persisted. “You’ve barely looked up from it all day. You didn’t even eat your lunch.”

“Do you know they have a warrant out on Dr. Gregory House?” Tritter asked, finally looking up from the file. 

“Oh,” Miranda replied, smirking, “That’s what this is about. Your old friend.” Tritter glowered at her. 

“He drove his car into his girlfriend’s house – who is also his boss,” he hissed, slamming down the folder with a glare. 

“Ex-boss, I’d assume?” Miranda retorted, “I imagine if you ran your car into Alvarez’s house, she’d fire you about the time she got done killing you.” 

“Well, she doesn’t want him anywhere near the hospital, or near her,” Tritter replied, “Which is reasonable. I don’t understand why she got into a relationship with him in the first place. He was unstable when I met him and I’m sure he’s only gotten worse in the meantime. She ought to be glad that he didn’t kill her. And she’s got a three-year-old child, too!” Tritter’s voice rose with anger. “I don’t understand how w…” he cut himself off as Miranda sat back down at her desk. 

“How women can be so stupid?” Miranda replied with a mocking tone. “Is that what you were going to say, Trit?” Ignoring Tritter’s shaking his head, Miranda smirked. “Because we think with our hearts and not with our dicks. You might want to try it, sometime, and maybe you’d get a date.” Not looking at her partner, Miranda reached down and pulled out a copy of the _New York Post_ , the headline of which was “Weiner: I’ll Stick It Out”. 

Tritter was saved from having to try and respond by the fact that his personal phone took that moment to go off. _Briiiiing._ He scooped it up gratefully and held the cream-colored receiver for the rotary phone – which he’d often wondered why he’d never bothered to replace – to his ear.

“Hello,” he intoned. 

“Tritter. Get in my office,” the voice on the other end, tinged with a Spanish accent, commanded, and Tritter heard the dial tone in his ear long before he could utter a protest. He hung it up once, then twice, on the his desk, and then sighed. _One distraction cut out for a worse one,_ he thought. 

A few moments later he found himself sitting in a black leather swivel chair across from his boss of the past year and a half, Lt. Monika Alvarez. A curvy woman with bronze skin and chocolate eyes, she had spent a number of years in Homicide somewhere in Massachusetts before trading it in for a much less nerve-wracking position in Princeton PD. 

“Tritter,” was the first word out of her mouth, and it was followed by a disappointed shake of the head and a warning glance. “This Dr. House thing – it needs to go.” 

“What do you mean?” Tritter asked, leaning forward slightly and locking eyes with his boss. 

“I know you were good friends with the old Captain,” she continued, “But your behavior five years ago would be enough to get you fired by just about anyone other than him. That includes me. Now, I don’t need bad publicity destroying this department. I really do not need it. Do you understand?” Alvarez picked a pen off of her desk and proceeded to open a file folder with her free hand. “This is Dr. House’s arrest record. He was charged with reckless endangerment and hit and run.” 

“He was charged with attempted murder!” Tritter protested. “He ran his car into her house!” Alvarez ignored him. 

“Detective Tritter,” she said, closing the file again. “Do you understand Dr. House’s reputation? He is the best diagnostician in the world. Do you understand exactly what that means?” Tritter continued to lock his ice blue eyes with hers, but didn’t respond. “That means we need to find a way to do what’s best for Dr. Cuddy, for us, and for him – which means, when we find him, you do whatever you need to do to make this go away. Talk to Dr. Cuddy. Talk to Dr. House. Get him to pay for what he did to her, but don’t get him thrown in jail. Tu entiendes?” Alvarez only slipped into her native Spanish when she was on the death march, and Tritter knew she was serious. 

“Yes,” he mumbled simply, averting his gaze. He knew his job was on the line – for things he had done five years before! How was that fair? 

“Now, I’ve been alerted that Dr. House was found coming back from the airport,” she continued, “He should be in this police station in about twenty minutes. Are we agreed?” 

“Yes,” Tritter mumbled.

“Good. Now get to work.”


	2. Arrest

Dr. House was led into the Princeton Police Station by detectives Cornelia “Neely” McVee and Lee Hamilton. Neely was a tall, curvy blonde that House probably would have been flirting with, had she not been leading him along by his handcuffs, and Lee was a well-built black man with a no-nonsense look perpetually on his face and a patch of facial hair that only served to make him that much more intimidating. 

House was glaring, and his look was some mix of annoyance and trepidation, but not quite fear.

Not until he saw Tritter, at least. When he saw his old rival, the blue eyes flared up in a harried mesh of humiliation and acute worry. What he was thinking was, _So I’m truly fucked this time._

The high that had come with the crash was long gone; it had washed away on the beach. But it had been a high, the fucking best high – he hadn’t touched a Vicodin in a week. Now, however, he was wishing he had those little white pills, even with all the problems they caused, because now the detectives were jostling his bad leg (though, it seemed, not on purpose), and his arms were aching badly from being in handcuffs. And then to see Tritter – the last person he wanted to ever see again, in fact. 

It wasn’t as if Tritter particularly wanted to see House, either. Looking into those blue eyes – not totally unlike his own – Tritter saw that House hadn’t changed a bit. Not that he had really felt that he would, despite his words of, “I hope I’m wrong about you.” Tritter had never been wrong about someone in his life. He knew bad from good when he saw it, and House was corrupt to the core. The fire in his eyes showed that, the sort of righteous indignation and sudden realization of how far he’d gotten in this time with no way out. 

_No Wilson to bail him out this time – and certainly no Cuddy,_ Tritter thought to himself with a certain flush of pleasure, before remembering that, no, due to Alvarez’s direction, _he_ was the one who would be forced to save House from himself. But she hadn’t said anything about not being allowed to toy with him, first. Maybe Tritter could scare him straight, give the man a jump, get back at him for everything that had gone down those years ago, and how he’d made Tritter look like an utter idiot in front of the judge at House’s hearing. 

“Hello there, Dr. House,” Tritter snarled, “What brings you here?” He looked at House and started when he saw pure fear in House’s eyes. 

_I’m under Tritter’s thumb now,_ the words flowed through House’s subconscious, not necessarily acknowledging that Tritter couldn’t really hurt him, not here with all of these other people around. But the fear was still there and he didn’t entirely understand it. It wasn’t so much that it was Tritter – the man was a dick but apart from the cane kick - and shit, House felt an inch tall as that replayed in his memory, he didn’t want to go there but that’s where he was – Tritter had never really harmed him…

It was just… He was helpless now.

 _Shit, I can’t even… He could swing at me now, I have nothing. Why the fuck did I do that with the car, why did I lose control?_ House’s brain reeled in panic. 

_Because you needed it._ That little voice in his head, saying that, now, sounded almost-but-not-quite like Wilson’s voice. He wondered what Wilson thought of him now, felt a pang of guilt for his friend’s broken wrist. He’d never wanted to hurt him; and not Cuddy, physically – just emotionally. She’d broken him, broken House, so he’d break her house – it sounded mad, now, but it made so much sense.

“Tritter,” he whispered. He slumped slightly, and Neely held him up, looking worried. 

“Is he okay?” she asked Lee. Lee shrugged. 

“The man’s got a bad leg,” he murmured to his partner, “Let him sit down for God’s sake.” He shook his head, as if wondering why he had to deal with so many stupid questions in his job, and helped Neely carry House over to an interrogation room. They placed him as gently as they could in the chair, and then Neely crossed back over to Tritter.

“He’s all yours and Bennett’s. Looks like you two know each other,” she said, giving a small smirk. “Be careful of him – bad leg, y’know?” Tritter gave her a small glare.

“Yeah, I know he’s got a bad leg,” he retorted, then walked back into his own office, finding Miranda sitting back and watching an episode of _Breaking Bad_ on the computer. “Great use of station resources,” he snarled at her. 

“Yeah, look who’s talking,” Miranda shot back, hitting the pause button on the mouse. She gestured to the screen and added, “It’s relevant to the job – it’s got the DEA in it.” She smirked. “Your friend ready to be interrogated? Alvarez told me she wants him cut loose and not to let you fuck it up.” Tritter glared.

“Fuck Alvarez,” he grumbled. “That bitch only cares about publicity and not about the law. The fact that Edward Vogler’s nephews keep getting miraculously cut loose on all their DUIs is a testament to that.” Miranda shrugged. 

“You win some you lose some, right?” she replied. “And you wouldn’t say any of that to Alvarez’s face, so when you’re in charge, you can make the rules.” She looked at the man she’d gotten to know extremely well over the last three years that they’d been partners. She probably knew Tritter better than anyone else, and even then she still couldn’t quite figure him out. “But you don’t want to hear that – so let’s pretend I didn’t say it,” she added a second later. “How’s House doing?” Tritter shrugged.

“In all honesty, fuck if I know. He looked like he was having a post-traumatic stress episode or some shit when he came in,” he responded. Miranda looked at him. 

“And you just left him in the interrogation room?” she asked incredulously. “Oh fuck, Trit – seriously. You’re the world’s biggest ass.” She stood up and made her way towards the interrogation room.


	3. Interrogation

“Dr. House? Dr. House?” Miranda inquired as she stepped into the interrogation room and looked at the man seated across from her. Parted from his cane, his bad leg slumped against one leg of the chair, and his eyes looked tired and more than a little afraid. She gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile, and took the open seat, craning her neck forward slightly and looking at the beleaguered diagnostician. “Are you doing okay?”

If there was one part of this job that Miranda hated, it was this goddamned good cop, bad cop routine that she and Tritter inevitably ended up in. Because she was young and female, not to mention had a way less abrasive personality than Tritter did, she was forever resigned to “good cop”. 

“Dr. House?” she called again, keeping her voice soft. 

“Yeah?” the figure murmured as he looked up, as if momentarily forgetting where he was. “What do you want?” Miranda forced her mouth into another encouraging smile.

“I just want to talk to you about what happened a few weeks ago… with Dr. Cuddy? And the detectives read you your rights, right?” she asked conversationally. This was her style, the way she always did it, as if she was more of a friendly guidance counselor than a detective. Before joining Princeton PD as a detective, she’d worked five years in Trenton on Vice, and had gotten used to this kind of conversation after men had gotten picked up for soliciting hookers. It was easy then – usually – because it was never really all that big a deal. They’d write them a citation and send them on their way, and that would be that. 

Since she’d joined Princeton PD, it had been, if anything, even less exciting. At least in Trenton there was the ever-present possibility that a would-be john would pull a knife or try to ask for some completely messed up sexual interaction. The fact that she’d gotten asked once to participate in scat porn had been a story she’d told multiple times upon joining the station, given that nothing nearly that interesting had happened in the two years that she’d been there. The fact that Tritter had responded to the first time she had told that story with the tale of how he’d had a thermometer shoved up his ass by a doctor had made the whole situation that much more entertaining.

Because now, of course, she had found herself staring at the shover of said thermometer, and she was desperately to make that her “ice-breaker” question; but she did have to work with Tritter and she might need him to cover her back. _So it might be better not to aggravate Trit too much on this whole thing._

“I know my rights,” House replied quietly, looking up at her. His voice was not afraid; instead, it was simply resigned. “I waive the right to an attorney.” 

“You’ll be willing to answer some questions for us, then?” Miranda asked, making her voice enthusiastic. 

“Is ‘us’ you and _Tritter_?” House retorted, spitting the name. 

“Us is myself and _Detective_ Tritter,” Miranda responded, putting her hands on her hips.

“How’d he get such a hot partner as you?” House taunted. “Did he have to pay?” Miranda smirked.

“No, but the station did. Now, are you going to tell us what happened with Dr. Cuddy or not?” she asked, tilting her head to the side. “I don’t have all day. Dr. House. I have places to go and people to see, really.”

“College kids’ parties to bust,” House mocked. Miranda gave him a look.

“Yeah, maybe. But it’s part of the job. If we don’t bust them, they end up in your emergency room at PPTH. So the more I do my job, the less you have to do yours. I want to get you back to your job, so I can do mine. You understand?” she asked. “I don’t want some big hassle and I don’t want some back and forth. I know you don’t like Detective Tritter – and really, listen closely,” she craned her head and put her hand to her ear emphatically, “This is the sound of me not giving a shit. I just need you to give me a statement about what happened a couple weeks ago when you seemed to have sort of ran your car into Dr. Cuddy’s house. Is that too much to ask for, really?”

“No,” House replied. “And I’m willing to take whatever punishment is necessary for what I did… I can’t tell you why I did it because there’s no way to phrase it that isn’t going to sound crazy. But she kept telling me to let it out – let my anger about our… breakup, go, and, well, I did.” Miranda pursed her lips and nodded. 

“Dr. Cuddy was with another guy in her house, right?” she asked gently. “I can see why that would piss you off…” It wasn’t just words that time. Miranda had sworn off men a few years ago when she’d caught her boyfriend-at-the-time having sex with her cousin in her bed. She’d chased him out with her police-issue baton and made threats that had involved a taser and delicate parts of his anatomy. But driving a car into someone’s house? That was a bit much – not really justified, and for obvious reasons illegal. But understandable. House shrugged. 

“I told you what I did,” he said simply, “Just let me know what my sentence is and I’ll take it.” His voice was tired, as if he just wanted to take his punishment and be done with it. 

It was a tone of voice he hadn’t used very often, since very long ago. 

His eyes were dead, not quite there, and Miranda wondered what had happened to this man, and when, to elicit this kind of response. 

“Now, listen,” she told him, “You just sit tight and I’ll let you know, all right? We don’t know what’s going on, yet. But are you doing all right? Do you need anything?” 

“My Vicodin,” House mumbled. 

“Sure,” Miranda replied, walking out of the interrogation room, “I’ll go get that for you.”


	4. Teams

Miranda walked towards the interrogation room with a bottle of Vicodin, but Tritter followed her. A scowl was etched into his face, and he raised his voice to protest as she neared the door.

“You’re seriously going to give him more Vicodin?” he asked in disbelief. “Bennett, the man’s an addict. He’s just trying for a fix. He needs to get off the stuff, and you’re just enabling him.” Miranda glared back at him.

“Trit, I don’t need him detoxing all over the floor, okay? The man’s going to be a lot more malleable if we give him what he wants, and quite frankly, what he needs. And what did Alvarez say, anyway?” she looked at her partner and placed her hand on her hip. “Because I’m not getting involved in another little battle between you and her. You know full well she always wins and she doesn’t like to play.” 

Tritter scowled again and looked at his partner, knowing her words to be true but not liking the fact that they were. 

He’d requested her as a partner two years ago, and he always had asked himself exactly why. He knew the answer if he thought hard enough, but, again, he didn’t like it. He didn’t like that Miranda’s kind, searching and curious eyes had reminded him, upon seeing them, of a woman he’d met three years before that.

That Miranda’s big brown eyes had reminded him of Allison Cameron’s eyes.

That he wanted a partner as devoted to him as Cameron was devoted to House.

It was messed up if he thought about it too much, and even if he only thought about it awhile, considering that when he’d met Cameron he’d derisively written her off as the employee equivalent of a battered spouse that senselessly comes back for more abuse because “he loves me”. 

House had assembled a perfect team, somehow – three people who for three different reasons were perfectly willing to lie for him, and, probably, lie to him.

There was Foreman, distrustful of authority – that’s why he wouldn’t talk to Tritter. He hated House, but he also admired him, that much had been obvious.

Tritter didn’t want a Foreman as partner; too much resentment to make for an effective partnership and plus, it would be hard to spend those hours in squad cars together if a festering hatred was brimming below the surface. 

There was Chase, but Chase was… well, Tritter wasn’t entirely sure why Chase even worked for House, considering he hadn’t seemed to like him very much, either.

But then there was Cameron. Flawless Cameron. Loyal Cameron. 

Tritter had wanted a Cameron, and he’d seen one in Miranda. He’d only been a bit disappointed. 

Miranda had bite, sarcasm, and as loyal as she was she’d never been afraid to fire back in Tritter’s face that he was wrong. She called him “Trit”, with a mix of affection and annoyance and if he had ever had a gun put to his head and been forced to tell anyone his deepest, darkest secrets, he’d tell them to Miranda.

“Okay,” Tritter murmured, “Give him his Vicodin. And then let me talk to him.”

“I don’t think you need to go all ‘bad-cop’ on him, Trit,” Miranda replied, “I mean, after all he admitted to crashing the car. Let’s just give him his Vicodin and let Alvarez sort this out. You’re still avoiding the question on what Alvarez said to you? Is it about this? Is it about Dr. House?”

At that point, Britney Rolling, the pretty police dispatcher, walked past. She was in her early twenties, probably (no one knew for sure because no one really cared to ask), and has silvery blonde hair and bright green eyes. She was a knock-out, and Tritter had wanted her since she’d been hired at the station three months ago. It wouldn’t be that hard, really – legend had it had Britney had slept with Lee and a few of the sergeants already, anyway, not to mention a few members of the patrol. He just needed to say the word, really, if that were true. He just wasn’t sure which word in particular.

Tritter’s eyes drifted after Britney, focusing on her ass as Miranda let out a snort. 

“Oh gee, sorry to have been interrupted by that slut,” she grumbled once Britney was out of earshot. “I’ll save you the trouble and get you some penicillin. Or, you know what’s better? Dr. House can prescribe it for you!” She placed her hands on her hips and growled at her partner. She hated Britney. She admired Tritter. She hated Tritter for being so disappointing and utterly predictable as to be interested in someone like Britney. She and Tritter were a team.

Inseparable; she could remember the day she’d been introduced, “This is your new partner, Detective Tritter,” and there’d been a light chuckle from Alvarez as she’d said it, kind of like it was an inside joke. And Tritter had been the laughingstock of the station then, still, but Miranda hadn’t cared. She’d seen him as a mentor and she’d seen his virtues. She knew she could rely on him to back her up if need be, to get her out of the line of fire and really, that’s what she needed. 

That first week, Lee had taken to referring to her as “Shadow” and “Tritter Junior”, but she’d quickly shown that she had talent in her own right, and not to write her off too easily. She’d solved cases – nothing too interesting but then again, it was Princeton, where the most exciting thing that tended to happen in the day would be raiding a frat party and coming away with a few bundles of ecstasy. No wonder Tritter had had time to spend using Department resources to go settle his own personal vendettas – it wasn’t as if there was very much else to do. But slow as the caseload was, Miranda had a knack for knowing who was guilty and who wasn’t, and most of all for calming down tense situations. More than once she’d waltzed into a barfight with a gentle smile and sorted everything out peacefully – when that failed, however, she could run and tackle with the best of them.

“You don’t need to have that attitude,” Tritter retorted, “I wasn’t doing anything. And Alvarez said…” He looked at her and then trailed off, deciding against telling her about Alvarez’s warnings, humiliating as they were. “Just let me get a crack at Dr. House,” he said instead, “That’s all I ask.”


	5. Confrontation

Tritter got the chance he wanted, and he was savoring it as he stepped forward, following behind Miranda into the room and feeling the sweltering heat begin to stifle his chest. He knew by now that the feeling was likely psychological and that the room likely wasn’t really all that much warmer than the rest of the station, but that did little to stop the feeling. He could only hope that House was sweating too, and that he’d be sweating more when Tritter got a hold of him.

Had he put the issue with House behind him? He’d like to think he had, but now, seeing him, looking into those still-defiant eyes, he wasn’t nearly so sure. 

He hadn’t thought about House in years, had he? He’d gone on to other cases, on to other grudges – little grudges, the guys who Britney dated while Tritter was left watching her ass as she walked by, the officers Alvarez lauded while giving him a hard time, the people who were rude to him and blocked the checkout line at the supermarket. But House was something else – House had almost lost him his job.

No, now that wasn’t quite right. Tritter had nearly lost himself his job, by how he’d handled it – he could have let it go, after all. But that thermometer? He could have forgiven the rudeness, but not the humiliation – that wasn’t his way, had never been his way.

“Here’s your Vicodin, Dr. House,” Miranda said politely, leaning down to hand House a small tan-colored bottle with the familiar screw-top. House shifted silently, indicating his handcuffs.

“I can’t take them with no hands,” he said, and the snark that would otherwise be behind the words was gone, it was almost begging or pleading. Miranda looked at him with sympathy, and Tritter with condescension – the pain must have been beginning to eat at him now, whether psychosomatic or real.

“I’ll take off your cuffs,” Miranda replied, heading for House before Tritter could interrupt and tell her that it was a bad idea. She glared over at her partner as she produced the key and stuck it into the space between House’s cuffs. “Come on, Tritter. He’s not going to _run_.” She realized the hidden meaning in the phrase and blushed hard, feeling guilty, and tried desperately to correct it. “He’s a doctor, not some average con. We should treat him with respect.” She pulled on the cuffs and released House’s hands, watching as he twirled his wrists experimentally and raised his hands to the table, letting out a half-quieted moan.

“Thank you,” House whispered brokenly, and Tritter felt a chill go up his spine. He’d only heard House use that tone of voice when he’d known he’d lost, when he’d taken that deal. Tritter was both fascinated and horrified to see it again.

“You need water?” Miranda asked, and Tritter wanted to snap at her to stop being his goddamned nursemaid, that he’d seen House pop Vicodin dry more than once before and that it wasn’t going to hurt him, to stop pampering him already or he’ll run ragged over all of us. But he didn’t say those things. Instead he watched as House shook his head and reached out, undid the screwtop and tossed three Vicodin into his mouth and swallowed. Miranda gestured with her arms in House’s direction, like Vanna White. The meaning was clear: _he’s all yours now._

Tritter sat down opposite House and just watched him for a moment, looked at his eyes and pondered the situation. A man he’d never thought he’d see again. A man he hoped to never see again – or was that not true?

“Why’d you do it?” he inquired, cocking his head to the side and enjoying observing Dr. Gregory House, at his lowest – well, maybe not at his lowest. He was sure there was much farther down House could go but he was convinced a rock bottom didn’t exist for him. He was an addict, and an unrepentant one at that. Tritter had seen hundreds like him, hadn’t he? But none with so much promise to be something so much better if he could just kick the habit – both habits, actually, the drugs and that goddamned snarky-ass attitude of his.

“Because I did,” House retorted, and Tritter saw a bit of that old fire back in his eyes, and felt an urge to strike it out, slap that look off his face. But that seemed too… he didn’t like that thought. It was way too “crazy abusive father”, and Tritter was none of those three things. 

“Cuddy,” Tritter began, and he realized that he didn’t want to blurt out information in front of Miranda that would harm Cuddy – it wasn’t her fault that she’d given House a chance and House happened to be a nutjob. “You _know_ what Cuddy did to help you out. And you repay her by driving your car into her house? And you hurt your friend Wilson, too.” The indignant air slowly evaporated from Tritter’s voice as he spoke, and he almost may have been… hurt, maybe. Or betrayed. Something like that. “Like the judge said… you have better friends than you deserve, and you’re fast losing them.” _But one of your new friends happens to be my boss,_ he thought with a rush of anger. Why was he being told to flog House and let him go? He was like a reverse Pontius Pilate, or maybe the crowd screaming for blood – _crucify him, crucify him._

“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” House replied firmly. “Just book me or do what you’re going to do… But I don’t need this.” 

“And what do you need?” Tritter retorted. “Vicodin? Another chance to maybe kill someone the next time you go off the rails?”

“I need you to get off my back!” House yelled, and Miranda flinched back slightly, wondering if it may have been a bad idea to take off House’s cuffs. But the diagnostician didn’t move, didn’t bang his hands or thrash or anything she would have expected, only his voice attacked. And he sat unmoving, staring at the Vicodin bottle, as if he was expecting it to move itself. Or maybe, to talk back to him.


	6. Called Away

Tritter didn’t want to admit it, but during the trial he’d fantasized about having House at his mercy. He remembered the rush that he’d felt when he’d cuffed the doctor, the euphoria at the utter fear and realization in the man’s eyes as he realized he had screwed up, the beautiful clink of the handcuffs as he purposely pulled them just a little too tight. Nothing too bad, he didn’t want to hurt him badly. He’d never wanted to hurt him badly.

But a little bit went a long way. He’d gotten immense satisfaction from coming up on House the next morning – after that insipid Wilson had decided to bail him out, no surprise there – after the doctor had been without his pain meds a night, he’d gotten…

No, no he wasn’t going to go there.

Tritter stared across the table at House, and he could almost see the blue eyes shatter into a million pieces. One moment, he wanted to take a photo and frame it – the next, he couldn’t look anymore.

The door to the interrogation room opened and Neely walked in, swinging her blonde ponytail back and forth as she sauntered over to Tritter.

“Alvarez wants you,” she chirped, in a tone that was equal parts business and mockery, and then turned around and walked out again. 

When she was out of earshot, Miranda echoed in a put-on, high-pitched voice, “Alvarez wants you!” She smirked and rolled her eyes, then raised her hand emphatically. “Teacher, teacher! Oh please pick me!” 

Tritter ignored the good-natured jibing and stood up, walking out the door and, reluctantly, into Alvarez’s office yet again.   
Before he even sat down, she barked, “Y’cut Dr. House loose yet?” Tritter shook his head, irritated.

“We’re still getting his statement,” he protested, taking a seat. He narrowed his eyes at his boss and glared. “Give us some time.”

“You’re about to get more time than even you need,” Alvarez retorted. Tritter found himself considering that Alvarez would actually be pretty if she smiled once in a while. But he’d never seen her smile. He wondered why she was even a police officer, considering that she seemed to hate the detectives and officers to such an extent.

After all, it wasn’t just Tritter. Tritter was just her favorite target.

She’d put Miranda on suspension one week after she’d overheard her calling Alvarez a “stupid fucking bitch” to Lee. She’d put Lee on suspension for two weeks after Lee had loudly proclaimed to Tritter that he’d like to fuck Alvarez in the ass. And though she hadn’t put Tritter or Neely on suspension for anything, at least not yet, she liked to humiliate them both whenever possible. She’d said more than once that she considered Tritter a victim of the spoils system – that he’d sucked up to old bosses and kept his job and gotten his shield that way, and she was convinced Neely had gotten her shield by blowing the former captain and had insinuated as much.

The unfortunate part was, despite all of this, Alvarez was actually a damn good cop. She’d solved a multitude of cases – not particularly interesting ones, but hell, it was Princeton, not _Law & Order_ – and she knew how to use the media to get the message across that the Princeton PD were utterly amazing it every way. She’d probably saved lives and influenced people and helped the department in leaps and bounds.

But Tritter still hated her and wished that during one of her trips to visit her family in Mexico, she’d fall off the coast and get eaten by whatever sea life happens to hang out in the Gulf. Maybe some piranhas – Tritter was trying to remember whether piranhas were native to Mexico when Alvarez glared at him again and he pretended that he had been paying attention all along and simply was concentrating on her words very closely. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Tritter inquired. He had somehow gone from thinking about piranhas to whether or not he would have banged Tracy Chapman. 

“I’ve been called away, and I’m taking the patrols with me. It’ll just be you and the other detectives – and Dr. House, until you let him go,” Alvarez said with a sneer. “There’s a hurricane that may be hitting New Jersey, and we have to go deal with the traffic horrors. Do you think,” Alvarez began to speak like she was talking to a kindergarten student, “you can handle one crippled doctor by yourself until I get back? Or will that be trying the spectacular Tritter intellect?” Tritter decided that he would definitely bang Tracy Chapman, but only if she were to promise to drive her “Fast Car” right into Alvarez.

At that thought, Tritter was beginning to see some justification to House’s actions. If he only knew where Alvarez lived…

“Yeah,” Tritter replied, “I’m on it, Lieutenant.” 

“Good – ‘cause I think this will be taking up most of the department’s resources for the rest of the day. This damn hurricane shit, if I wanted it I would have stayed in Mexico. The hell is this, right?” Alvarez slammed her hand on to her desk. “Go have fun with Dr. House. He had better be out of this fucking station by the time I come back, or I’ll eat your balls for dinner. Or maybe just as a fucking appetizer.” She made a brushing motion, and Tritter stood up and walked out, glowering but trying hard not to show it.

He walked back into the interrogation room and shot his glare at House instead, given that he was an acceptable target.

“You done popping your Vicodin yet?” he snarled. “If you overdose, it’s not my problem, you know.” Miranda looked back at him from where she was sitting, and she looked irritated, as if she’d been interrupted in the middle of a very pleasant conversation with Dr. House. Not that House looked like he was talking – he was still staring ahead at the walls, as if he could see Cuddy there, maybe. 

“If he overdoses,” Miranda retorted in a soft, warning tone, “You’re giving him CPR.” She smiled at the diagnostician, as if to remind him that he was safe. “We’re just gonna ignore my partner – he’s on his period.” She glared up at Tritter. “Alvarez tends to do that to him.”


	7. Storm Front

“Wilson?” Dr. Lisa Cuddy called as she stuck her head inside the office of her colleague and employee, Dr. James Wilson. “Can you make sure you cover your windows and keep them closed?” 

Wilson looked up from his laptop with a somewhat dazed expression on his face. His right wrist was still bandaged from his run-in with House’s car, and that wasn’t the only part of him that had yet to recover. He was still utterly shaken by the events – how could he even begin to process them? More than that, he just utterly missed House. He felt guilty for that, but it was the truth. The days seemed so much longer without House’s intrusions into his office. 

“How come?” Wilson inquired. 

“There’s a hurricane coming,” Cuddy replied. “And I don’t really want to be dealing with repairs to the hospital right now. I’ve got enough repair bills as it is.” Wilson gave her a sympathetic look, but he didn’t know what to say. He felt as if he’d be stabbing himself in the heart if he spoke against House, but at the same time he knew that he had often enough and that House’s actions were unjustifiable. So he said nothing at all. 

“Okay, will do,” Wilson replied, forcing a smile on to his face. Cuddy turned her head as if she was about to leave, but then she paused and turned back, letting out a sigh.

“You’ve heard?” she asked quietly, and Wilson gave her a questioning look. “House was arrested coming back from the airport.” Wilson swallowed and stared down at the table, trying to focus on the least disturbing part of the sentence.

“What was he doing at the airport?” he inquired, his eyes widening. He had been sure House would have stayed in New Jersey – where the hell had he even gone off to? It wasn’t as if he had a lot of family scattered in other states.   
Cuddy shrugged in response. She’d given up trying to understand House, now. She’d gotten past the rage she had felt when he’d originally done this, but she no longer felt sympathy or love or really anything for the man who had been such a part of her life for so many years. When she thought about House, she just felt dead inside – and she hated it. She desperately wished she felt like bashing his head in or kissing him or lighting him on fire, but she just felt nothing at all. It scared her. 

Cuddy narrowed her eyes at Wilson, who was clearly trying to figure out how to respond to the whole situation. To her, he looked utterly conflicted and, more than that, completely out of his element. 

She was right. Wilson was trying to figure out how either to not rush to House’s aid (because he always did that and apparently it didn’t work) and stay on Cuddy’s good side, not mention save himself the headache or rush to his aid (because he always needed to and who else was going to?) and risk angering Cuddy and ending up sorting out House’s mountain of emotional and now legal problems. 

“You should call him,” Cuddy said quietly. 

“I should?” Wilson asked. Maybe he shouldn’t have been as shocked as he was – Cuddy had always been the one to step forward and try to get Wilson and House to reconcile whenever they fought. He remembered after Amber’s death, when he’d wanted to leave and Cuddy had tried to force he and House into what she’d wryly dubbed “couples therapy”. He smiled sadly now, thinking about that. He wondered what Amber would have to say about this whole situation – she’d either smack her face with her palm at another House stunt, or want to give him props. 

He could remember walking away from House that time, with the parting words of “We’re not friends anymore, House. I’m not sure we ever were.” At the time, it’d felt incredibly rewarding, like throwing off a burden. Looking back, he felt nothing but guilt. How the hell was House still inspiring that guilt in him when he was now in jail for running his car into Cuddy’s house? What the hell hold did House have over him?

“Yeah, you should,” Cuddy replied. “Maybe not now, considering the phone lines are probably going to all go haywire. But you should call him. He needs you.” She turned away again, deciding that she needed to go make sure all the generators were up to par and wouldn’t give out if the hurricane knocked out the power. As she stepped forward, she added quietly, “And you need him.”

Maybe she hadn’t intended Wilson to hear it, but he did. He didn’t need to, however – after all, he already knew that it was true. He needed House maybe even more than House needed him. House had accused him of needing to be needed, but it was so much more than that.

Cuddy was right, he needed to call him. Make sure that he was all right. Try in vain to get some kind of explanation for his behavior. 

Wilson picked up the phone and stared at it. He didn’t even really know what number to call – the police station? Or maybe the jail? The prison? – or whether if he did call, they’d even let him talk to House. He didn’t know quite how it worked, in the past House had always called him from these places and he’d played the dutiful best friend and he’d marched in with bail money and a frustrated look on his face. But he’d always enabled, somehow.

But House had always been the first to reach out, really. As much as Wilson had accused House of hiding behind his apathetic attitude, Wilson hid behind his measured, distant caring as well. And he didn’t know quite how to make the first step without House behind him.

Behind the window, he heard a whirl of wind, and he stood up, replacing the phone on the receiver. He had to cover the windows.


	8. Necessity

“So,” Tritter began as he sighed in defeat. “My boss insists that we need to cut you loose if it’s at all possible.” He looked at House and glared, expressing his own feelings on this particular order with icy intensity. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t move so fast,” Miranda cut in, and Tritter looked back at her, surprised. 

“What are you talking about?” he asked, before he could get enough of a reign on his mouth to ask her to step out of the room. “Alvarez says let him go and just make him stay away from Dr. Cuddy.” 

“There’s a storm on,” Miranda pointed out. “Our guys are going to be coming back – could be good to have a doctor around.” She turned her brown eyes to House and smiled sadly. “I don’t think we should make you stay. But… could we ask you to stay?” House shrugged.

“I don’t know if I currently have anything better to do,” he pointed out. “But how will we pass the time? Maybe you could give me a strip tease?” Miranda snorted, and Tritter nearly lunged forward before Miranda thrust an arm in his way.

“Shush, Trit,” she warned. “It’s just House being House.” She looked back at the man and smirked wryly. “No strip tease, sorry. My stripper shorts are in my other pants. We could play cards?” 

“Sure,” House replied with a shrug. “So what’s the deal here? I can just go home when this storm blows over?”

“You’ll be released pending the end of this investigation, but we’ll see what we can do about keeping things that way,” Miranda replied. “You’re an asset to the community and while what you did was really reckless, we don’t see you as really being a future threat.” She shrugged back. “People do stupid things in the heat of passion. It’s just human nature.” House gave her a guarded smile.

“Okay,” he replied with a shrug. “But give me something to do while I wait. Otherwise I’ll go back home and spend the storm hoping my electric doesn’t go out while I’m downloading internet porn.” Tritter shot him a disinterested look. He would have liked nothing more than to toss House away and throw away the key, but maybe Alvarez had had a point: it would be a public relations disaster and also, how much did the criminal justice system even want to deal with House? 

“Do you want a book or a magazine?” Miranda asked with a smile. “I could grab you one.”

“Did I have my Game Boy with me when I was taken in?” House inquired. “I usually kill time on that.”

“I’ll go check,” Miranda replied, and strode out of the room as Tritter followed her.

“You got a little something brown on your nose, there,” Tritter told her. She smirked.

“It’s always brown,” she replied lightly, pointing to her nose playfully. “Part of being black.” Tritter rolled his eyes.

“I’m not sure we really need to always play this good cop, bad cop game.”

“Then stop being bad cop,” Miranda retorted as she placed a hand on her hip.

“Why do you always have to sympathize with everyone who comes in through these doors?” Tritter asked. 

“Why do you always have to believe the worst of everyone?” Miranda shot back as she reached up and brushed a lock of her hair out of her eyes. “The man’s a doctor. Look at him and tells me he does it for the money.” She scoffed. “He wants to help.”

“He wants to feel like he’s better than everyone else because of his title and his reputation.”

“He’s the world’s most famous diagnostician,” Miranda pointed out. 

“Who drove his car through his girlfriend’s house!” Tritter responded, glaring at her. “Why put him on a pedestal?” 

“Why put anyone on a pedestal?” Miranda said with a shrug. “I’m not. You’re ready to try and execute him for something, though – you think he ought to be better just because he’s got some lofty title. But being a doctor doesn’t make him have to be a saint anymore than being a detective makes you have to be one.”

“What do you mean by that?” Tritter inquired.

“I mean you’re an ass,” Miranda responded, and she turned and walked over to the safes where they kept the personal effects of those who had been arrested. After a few moments of rifling through, she located House’s Game Boy. 

“Hey, Bennett,” called a voice as she stood up and turned the Game Boy over, making sure the batteries were intact. She raised an eyebrow and found herself looking at Detective Lee Hamilton. 

“Hey, Hamilton,” she replied with a smile.

“Playin’ games?” he teased, and she rolled her eyes at him. “No need to be a player, Bennett.”

“It’s Dr. House’s. I’m bringing it to him,” Miranda replied, turning to head back to the room. 

“Listen,” Lee called to her. “Me and Britney are going out to lunch. You think you and Tritter can handle House on your own? Neely’s staying behind.” He winked. “Three’s a crowd.”

“You’re gross, Hamilton,” Miranda told him. “I think Dr. House is covered. You really going to go out in a hurricane for a lunch, though? Britney Miller that good in bed?” Lee snorted. 

“We’ll beat the rain. We’ll be back in an hour.”

“Have fun,” Miranda said in a mocking voice as she wiggled her fingers in an exaggerated grave. “Might wanna see Dr. House when you get back, to make sure she didn’t give you anything.” 

“Envy, you’re called Miranda Bennett,” Lee replied, before he turned to go. 

“Yeah, envious of Britney Miller,” Miranda scoffed and walked back into the interrogation room. “Dr. House,” she called, and the diagnostician looked up, his blue eyes catching Miranda’s attention for a moment. “Here’s your Game Boy. By the way, what’s your diagnosis on men who only date sluts?”

“Stop that,” Tritter cut in.

“I meant Hamilton,” Miranda announced triumphantly. “Guess a guilty conscience needs no accuser… Right, Trit?”


	9. Meanwhile

Cuddy had been starring at the papers in front of her for minutes, but she hadn’t read a word. All she could see in her mind’s eyes was House. House, and the way he used to barge into her office. House, and the way he’d feel when he touched her hand.  
House, and the way she loved him still, despite all of this, and despite the way she still tried to chase it.

At least… well, he’d be in jail. He would pay his dues and by the time he was out again, maybe he would learn something.  
But regardless of her justifications, it felt like she had done something unforgivable. She knew House had chronic pain problems as well as emotional problems that wouldn’t be treated effectively in prison. Hadn’t she acted to keep him out of prison before, even going so far as to commit perjury in order to do so?

This time, she hadn’t, not because of what he’d done but because she felt like he was stabbing her in the back, now? How was that acceptable? What in that was right? Maybe this was tough love gone way, way too far.

She wished she could talk to Wilson about this without the sickening feeling that she was being a traitor, and leading Wilson into betraying House as well. 

She wished she could even just call House. Apologize. Tell him… 

Tell him what?

“I’m sorry that I somehow drove you to drive your car into my house?”

No, there was no apology that was right. And if an apology wasn’t… then what was? What could fix this?

Unless it was just utterly unfixable. Maybe she was the fool, for wanting a relationship with House. For daring to try to make it work, to figure it out, to understand the workings of his brilliant, but so very troubled, brain. 

She couldn’t stop the images from attacking her mind; images of a frightened and worried House, in pain, locked up in some jail.

And it was her fault.

She looked out the window; the promised storm hadn’t begun yet but the sky was a deathly dark, like gangrened limbs that necessitated amputation.

Or the suggestion, the argued-against suggestion of amputation.

She didn’t remember walking out of her office – it might have been a dream, she seemed to melt, to sift through the walls.

Foreman and Chase were talking but she couldn’t hear the words, simply the voices; like they’d been overdubbed in a language she didn’t know.

“Hi, Dr. Cuddy.” Chase’s voice came into her ears; she could hear him now. If she tried, she could focus, could tear herself away from House. She would have to learn to – if she were this jittery now, what the hell would she do if House did serve prison time?  
It was his own damn fault if he ended up doing so. Wasn’t it? He had committed violence upon her, upon her home, upon her family… But he was her family.

It was all so shattered, so horrific, that she couldn’t figure out quite how she felt, or even how she wanted to feel.   
“How are you holding up?” Chase asked, his voice tinged with concern. Cuddy heard herself reply that she was fine, thank you.  
It was easier with Chase. Chase would just give that sad, knowing smile; knowing that she was not fine, wouldn’t be for a while (but would be eventually, one day when House’s name wasn’t in her heart every second but maybe only every day). He wouldn’t press like Wilson always did, wouldn’t let on verbally that he knew the truth.

Chase was good like that.

Foreman didn’t even say anything at all. With House gone – if House was gone, for good – then she’d have to work at figuring out what to do, whether to make Foreman Head of Diagnostics or make he and Chase co-heads, or something… If they were working together, then someone would need to hire a third fellow to work alongside Thirteen and Taub, and…  
What was she thinking? Just make Foreman the head. Or don’t.

It had been so much easier when she’d known House was always coming back. Why had she let herself tangle her professional and personal responsibilities? She should have known it was a bad idea to do so… Now she was adrift without an idea of how to handle either of them.

Why, after all this, did she still want to turn around and feel House’s arms around her? Why did she regret her filing charges more than what had led to those charges?

Maybe she would call and withdraw them. She’d talk to the lawyer; maybe she could do that. Bring House back to work and simply insist that, just like after the Tritter debacle, she owned his ass now. He owed her one.

But even as she presented the idea in her head, she knew things had changed too much. They could never go back the way they were. 

It had been a mistake, in the beginning, to get into a relationship with House. She should have known things would have to change, and that if things went south, all they would do is crash and burn. It was her fault for initiating it, and then her fault for leaving him. She should have never started something she couldn’t finish.

She should have never broken his heart like that, and broken her own at the same time. It had been such a foolish move. She needed to think with her head, not her heart.

_What if I took him back? What if we went back to the way things were – when they were good? What if we forgot all this and we went back to loving each other? If I went back to believing he could really change if he wanted?_

She refused to acknowledge those thoughts; that was insane talk. She needed to brush it away. She needed to prepare for the storm. The storm that was coming – whether she was prepared or not.


	10. Chapter 10

Hamilton didn’t beat the rain. It was only about ten minutes after he had left that Miranda heard the obnoxious tapping on the window, like someone who had been locked out and couldn’t get back in. She gazed up at the ceiling, hoping the leak that she had just had fixed wouldn’t need to be fixed yet again; Alvarez hadn’t always been quite as good at reimbursement as her detectives would have hoped. 

Tritter, meanwhile, was drinking in a certain amount of satisfaction in the fact that Hamilton probably would come back looking like a drowned rat. The two hadn’t ever particularly gotten along, given that, at least according to Tritter, Hamilton could be next to the word “hotshot” in the dictionary. He strongly suspected the only reason Hamilton joined the force was because he saw a cop movie once and thought it would suit his suave style.

Tritter was, besides listening to the rain and brooding over his dislike of Hamilton, staring silently at House, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for the past few moments. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was thinking. Tritter didn’t care, he was just glad that the doctor, if he had to stick around (and maybe it was the safest thing for House, too, considering the weather), had taken a few moments to shut up. 

But as much as Tritter hated House’s yammering, his silence may have been worse. After all, what did it mean? That House was still broken – by this… whatever it was, this latest stunt of his? Or maybe, still, from his latest betrayal – he’d see it as a betrayal, wouldn’t he? Or maybe yet still, maybe it meant House was plotting. Maybe he was withdrawing. Maybe he was just lost off inside his head.

Tritter didn’t know.

And as a detective, he didn’t like not knowing things. Not reading people. 

“So, how are you holding up?” he asked, trying to sound comforting, like Miranda always did. 

It didn’t come out as he intended; it came out as a gruff bark, an interrogation. House looked at him and glared.

“Fine, for being imprisoned.”

“You chose to stay,” Tritter retorted, jerking his finger to the rattling window. “If you’d rather go out in that, be my guest.”

“Nah,” House replied, “I’ll probably come home to Cuddy having driven her own car into my house.”

“Would serve you right if she did.”

“Maybe it would.”

There was another stalemate, neither of them speaking, as Neely entered the room.

“You know, I moved to New Jersey to get away from this kinda stuff,” she announced to neither of them in particular. “Grew up in Florida, hurricanes all the TIME…”

“And Dexter,” House added sarcastically, but Neely didn’t respond.

“Then I went to college in Oklahoma – tornados!” she continued. “But no – I get right in the thick of it when I move to New Jersey of all places!”

“We’re in deep sympathy for your tragedy, aren’t we, Detective Tritter?” House inquired. Tritter shot him a look; as much as he didn’t understand Neely’s propensity to gab constantly, she was his colleague – albeit one who had never liked him very much, either. 

Neely crossed her arms and looked annoyed.

“The famous Dr. House, huh?” she asked. “I should have known. I’ll tell you, it’s a little irritating that you get all the attention for curing the occasional person with… exciting malaria or whatever it is, but we’re out there risking our lives to save people every single day and we don’t get any credit.” Tritter opened his mouth to cut her off, but she was on a roll. “And you’re not even so great, Dr. House.” She jerked her finger in Tritter’s direction. “You remember what happened to Joe Luria. Haines’ partner. He went to the great Dr. House, too, and he couldn’t save him.”

“Why are you jerking your finger at me?” Tritter asked, taking a seat across from House and trying to project how much he didn’t care with his eyes. “I guess I missed the sign that said I was House’s biggest fan.”

“You and Bennett are the ones who decided to keep him around.”

“Actually that was Bennett’s idea, McVee. You know this is 2011. Women are allowed to have ideas, too,” Tritter retorted in a patronizing voice, as House kicked back his feet, thinking to himself that if he had to be here, he might as well enjoy the show; that and Neely’s breasts, which were precariously close to popping out of her blouse as she shook with anger.

“Detective Tritter, you are an old dick,” she told him. “I’m glad Bennett is the one stuck with you and not me, because I would have killed myself. Slit my wrists and hung myself from a shower curtain.”

“Isn’t that overkill?” House chimed in. “I mean, wouldn’t just one do the trick? I’m only asking.”

If looks could have killed, House would have been the one hanging from a shower curtain. Luckily, looks couldn’t kill.  
The station rumbled and House could hear the walls shake in the heavy winds, followed by a sound that he couldn’t quite hear at first, but soon realized was an ear-shattering bang.

The last thought that he had before he was thrown through the air was that maybe he shouldn’t have pissed Neely off.

 _She’s like Carrie or something!_ He thought frantically. _Apparently I made a mistake!_

That irrational thought quickly flew from the diagnostician’s mind as he tried to assess the situation. Where was he? What had happened?

There had been a boom… he’d been thrown… somewhere.

But where?

He looked up and saw nothing but blackness, then reached out and touched some kind of metal.

The police station as it had been was no more. It lay in shambles around him… and on top of him. As for the others, they were somewhere in the wreckage, but House couldn’t hear anything apart from his own breathing and the steady drumbeat of the rain and wind. 

He was trapped.


	11. Gone Fishing

Cuddy didn’t connect the news with House, not at first. At first, she barely heard it; it was just a series of words, taps, signals on the radio that she had set up in the corner of her office to find out when she would no longer have to worry about having all the generators up and running to combat the storm.

Then she heard the news, “A police station is said to have suffered an explosion and collapse due to the storm,” and she considered that it sounded tragic. Sad. _A police station of all places ought to be more secure than that._

Then it hit her – Princeton Police Station.

If House hadn’t been transferred to somewhere else, if he hadn’t been transferred to a jail by now, he’d be there.

But he couldn’t be. He had to be safe. 

House was indestructible, despite his best attempts to prove otherwise. What would be the chances that he would get caught in this? He had to be long gone, either cut loose on a technicality or transferred to another jail.

But what if the weather had been too bad to move him or for him to go home? What if he was on his way home and his car – no, no, his car was broken – his… bike? His cab? Had overturned… 

She had to know. She ground a nail into her palm, trying to think of who would be best to call. _And, oh, God, Wilson… If Wilson gets wind of this before we know House is safe…_

Because House had to be safe. He simply had to be. 

Random tragic happenstance didn’t happen to Greg House; except for the fact that it already had, and more than once. A sudden infraction – a crazed gunman – it all seemed to attract to him, like a magnet to an opposing pole. Why not this? Why not a new disaster?

What had she sent him into? Or had he sent himself into it? Whose fault was it now, after all? She had pressed the charges, but this wasn’t her fault. There was no way she could have predicted…

_I’m getting ahead of myself. Who says he’s even in that collapse? I’m seeing tragedies where there might be none at all, except for figments of a guilty imagination._

She could still get internet access, on her phone at least, for the foreseeable future, so she decided to take advantage of it. She took her phone out of her desk and brought up the local news – but still nothing, aside from what she had just heard on the radio. 

Without being able to contact House, she could only guess…

Unless she could call him. 

If he had actually been booked into jail, they would have taken his cell phone. But if not… if there was some sort of delay, maybe, he would still have it. She could still call him (if he would even answer, seeing the call was from her)… it was such a long shot, but weren’t long shots what House had always specialized in?

It was worth a try. Always worth a try. A stab in the dark gets an answer, sometimes.

Cuddy logged off of the internet and quickly dialed House’s number, lingering on the green “Call” button as she thought of all the responses she could potentially get if she let her finger press against it. She could get an angry House, telling her to fuck off and get out of his life – that wouldn’t be the worse response because an angry House would be a living one. 

There were things she could encounter much worse than an angry House. She could hit that button and be connected to some police officer, telling her that House was dead, in the ground, some accident or somehow shot while trying to escape. Or maybe a Vicodin overdose; maybe they had never really arrested him at all and it was all a miscommunication and instead he was lying unclaimed in the morgue. Was Cuddy really ready to hear that, if that was the case?

That was the worst, maybe… The best case scenario? There didn’t seem to be one, which made her all the more reluctant to hit the button.

But she had to; there was really no choice.

She hit the “Call” button, closing her eyes and feeling more like a kid who was afraid to get a shot than a powerful Dean of Medicine. Why had she ever let her feelings get in the way of her work? But, she reminded herself, even if House had only remained her employee, she would still be worried… Of course she would be… This was normal.

She heard the phone ring, and she realized that she had been muttering “please pick up, pick up, pick up” to herself without noticing it. She needed to get herself together… She needed to be able to deal with…

“You’ve reached Dr. Greg House. Leave a message and if I want to talk to you, I’ll call you back. If not, well, then, I guess you’re out of luck!”

“House… I don’t care what happened between us, that’s not important right now,” Cuddy said quickly. “I know you probably hate me right now, well… okay, that’s understandable, but I want you to call me back if you’re okay, because… I’m worried about you, and I need to know that you’re okay. Call me back.”

She hung up and placed the phone back on her desk. It had been a stupid idea… 

But that didn’t stop her from picking up the phone again and hitting “redial”.

Maybe he’d have changed his mind; maybe he would pick up this time, even if she wasn’t exactly sure why he might.

One ring… 

She needed to keep clinging to hope. He would pick up, this police station thing had nothing to do with him, he would say something rude and nasty and she would know that he was okay and could go back to being furious with him, being done with him. 

The second ring.

She knew he wouldn’t pick up.

She hung up.


	12. Trapped

House’s head hurt to move. He tilted it ever so slowly to the side and could see his phone, what was left of it at least, vibrating madly in the corner. If he could only stretch out his arm far enough to grab it, he could tell someone he was in here – but he couldn’t remember exactly where “here” was, and the phone was probably shattered anyway. It was a lost cause.

He tried to think back and remember exactly how they (who were “they”, again, anyway?) had ended up in here, but it was all hazy. He thought of Cuddy’s name and her face, but that wasn’t connected, not directly at least. _Think, House, think._

He could at least move his arm – that was something at least. He wasn’t paralyzed. Do a neurological exam – could he remember who he was? Yes, he was House. House the failure, House the… no, getting down on himself right now was just idiotic, something he’d snap at a patient about. _No one gives a shit about your feelings right now, unless they’re relevant to the case… or interesting. And this moping is neither._ Did he remember what year it was? Who the president was? Yes and yes. 

It seemed that he had escaped brain damage. _Always a good sign._

He could use a whiteboard right about now. He really could.

***

Detective Tritter’s first realization as he opened his eyes was that something wet was on his forehead. When he raised his hand to check what it was, he pulled back his fingers and saw – blood.  
There had been that huge explosion, at least that’s what it had sounded like.   
He did a mental headcount – pretty much everyone had been out of the building except for… him, Miranda, Neely… and House.  
He needed to find them.   
Miranda especially… _Oh God, Miranda._  
His mind was clotted with thoughts of her, crushed under debris and laying there lifeless.  
 _No._  
He was a cop, he needed to think like one. Panicking and freaking out wasn’t going to help him in any way. He needed to assess the situation and move forward; that was how he operated.   
He took a deep breath and sat up, before pulling himself into a standing position. Well, he was definitely bleeding. That wasn’t good, but he didn’t feel like he’d been hit in the head, either. He turned his attention to his right arm.   
There was a huge gouge across it; it looked as if nuts or bolts or something similar had hit him in the forearm and embedded small pieces of themselves under his skin. He noted that he couldn’t really feel it yet, which was worrying. He couldn’t remember why it was worrying, exactly – just that it was.  
 _I’m not the doctor in the house,_ he thought dryly.   
House. He needed to find House.  
What the hell was he going to do?  
Tritter gazed around him, and he couldn’t believe that this heap of rubble surrounding him had once been the police station. He felt a twinge of sorrow that he had never thought he would have; if someone had asked him how he’d feel if the police station had gotten blown up, he would probably say he’d laugh.   
He had hoped that he could just walk out of this, given that the building seemed to have collapsed around him, but it didn’t look as if he had any such luck – there were holes in the ceiling but all places of exit seemed to have been completely sealed off; the doors he had walked through for twenty years had turned to beams and dust.   
He cleared his throat. It felt like his mouth was jammed with dust, as if he had just fallen into a sandpit and swallowed it all.   
Tritter tilted his head down and spit.   
“Is anyone here? Is anyone here? Are you all okay?”   
The words came awkwardly first, then they slowly crescendoed, growing in power and authority.  
“It’s me – call out if you’re here!”

***

House groaned and tried to move his arm again. It seemed to be taking every ounce of energy he had. 

He could hear a voice in the distance, but couldn’t quite pinpoint whose it was or why, exactly, it was calling to him, or whether it even was calling to him or maybe it was just raging at God and shaking its verbal fist at the sky or something. 

House looked for his cane, but gave up hope within seconds. He must have thrown it, by accident, when the walls had come tumbling down, and all hope of finding it under this wreckage was gone. Not to mention, he hadn’t even been able to stand yet, let alone root around for the damned thing. 

“It’s me – call out if you’re here!”

Clearer now, but he still couldn’t place the voice. 

“Come on – call if you can hear me!”

“I’m here!” House yelled as quickly as he could. Now, the source of the voice was clear – it was Tritter. But from where? And why? Really, given Tritter’s distaste for him, he could have understood if he had run off and just gone to save himself. Then again, the man was a cop – with that had to come a need to play the hero, right? 

“House! Is that you? Where are you?”

“…In wreckage,” House retorted loudly. It wasn’t as if there were distinguishing landmarks around here; it was simply rubble on top of more rubble. 

***

Tritter stepped forward, trying to ascertain House’s location from the faint sound of his voice. He wished he had an amplifier, something to increase the volume and maybe some kind of radar. It was difficult to figure it all out, especially when his ears were still mobbed by the sound of falling metal clinking against… against nothing, maybe. 

And House was just the beginning. He had to find Neely and Miranda… dear Lord, Miranda.

His arm throbbed.

“House!”

“Tritter!” House’s voice barked.

Closer. He was closer. That was a good sign, at least…


End file.
